


Time Will Take the Scars to Heal

by BlackandBlueMagpie



Series: Numberless Forms, Numberless Times [2]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Character Death, Gen, I'm sorry this series is not a happy one, Name Changes, Reincarnation, The Blitz, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-07-22 00:17:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7410880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackandBlueMagpie/pseuds/BlackandBlueMagpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Claude, after showing up on his doorstep toward the end of the war with a bundle of Elias’s belongings in his bag and warm words of comfort, had never really left. He’s not sure if it was pity, or a mutual understanding and need that made him stay, moving into the spare room, but Gabriel was glad of his presence. And soon they grew into close friends, both recovering from the scars of war, each with their own problems that they shared with the other, and together they healed, as much as they could.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time Will Take the Scars to Heal

**Author's Note:**

> Gabriel is Grantaire  
> Claude is Courfeyrac  
> mentions of Elias (Enjolras) and Frederick (Feuilly) 
> 
> Part two of Perhaps I Shall See

Around him the shelter is warm and damp. The humidity settles into his bones, leaving him overheated and itching. The crowd around him mutters and buzzes, voices blurring together in the distance. The breeze from the tunnel, stale though it is, does not reach him here with his back against the wall, legs out on the grubby platform. He exhales quietly, and keeps his eyes closed, at least then people ignore him and he can focus on other things.  
He’d been at a recital when the siren had sounded, a simple day time piece for a group of ladies who’d found him, his ability to play still, his dog, his lack of sight, his lack of wife, his entire person fascinating. When the siren had sounded he’d dared mentioned going home, to which they’d abjectly refused despite the fact he’d made his way over perfectly fine, and he’d found himself hounded and bustled into the nearest public shelter. Then when, he being rather dazed and slightly confused, someone had noticed his dog and told him he could not bring her in he’d had to insist and someone else had gotten involved, and then another and someone had taken it upon themselves to treat him as if he was a china doll who might shatter. So he’d been led, quite humiliatingly like a child, to what was deemed the best place for him – as it turns out this means hemmed in by everyone else, away from doors, tunnels and, most importantly, the platform edge – as if neither he nor Eliza could look after themselves. She had been confused, he will admit, but primarily by the amount of people, the children who he could hear cooing and whooping at her, all seeming determined to interfere with her work. She lays her head on his leg now, sighing deeply, so he reaches to scratch her head and murmur a reassurance.  
A deep concern settles in, deep and persistent. He’s never been away from the house in a raid, never left Claude alone through one because he’s always made it home come hell or high water. He curses quietly.  
Claude, after showing up on his doorstep toward the end of the war with a bundle of Elias’s belongings in his bag and warm words of comfort, had never really left. He’s not sure if it was pity, or a mutual understanding and need that made him stay, moving into the spare room, but Gabriel was glad of his presence. And soon they grew into close friends, both recovering from the scars of war, each with their own problems that they shared with the other, and together they healed, as much as they could.  
Claude helped Gabriel with his failing eyesight, his shattered heart and, in return, Gabriel helped with his health complaints brought on by his injury, and the guilt of surviving. One night they had discussed love, neither of them seeking a further partner once the war was over. Gabriel simply knew he would not be able to read people as well, a dangerous game if he wished to pick up a man, and if he were to marry a woman he would simply be a burden upon her, unable to work as he was. It would also feel like replacing Elias, something he couldn’t bring himself to do, even years after his death. Claude had confessed that he hadn’t the heart since he returned from the front, deeply effected as he was by what he’d witnessed. The feeling of being a burden kept them from others, but it cemented a deep friendship through understanding.  
So, together, their lives had ticked on through the twenties and thirties. Claude tended the garden Gabriel and Elias had shared, leading him to a particular flower every now and then and describing its colours and Gabriel ran his fingers over the soft petals. In the evening they would sit and read together, Claude was well educated and introduced him to classical literature and Gabriel painted pictures in his mind. Sometimes, often quietly and as if intruding, Gabriel would ask if they might read Elias’s letters. The answer was always yes, and Claude would read a small selection of the hundreds of letters they’d written to each other and Gabriel would find the buttons of Elias’s uniform, or other such mementos to turn over in his hands. Claude had realised the nature of the relationship immediately, so Gabriel had not sought to lie to him, trusting this gentleman who had so frankly spoken of their love.  
Then things had changed, the thirties progressed and things became troubling. They spent evenings around the wireless rather than reading, listening intently to the news of troubles in Italy, Spain, Germany, then Eastern Europe, Czechoslovakia, Poland. Then the troubles reached Britain. The paper Chamberlain had spoken so emphatically about was thrown to the wind, and, dry mouthed, hand in hand, the pair listened to the news that Britain was at war.  
Claude had wept, while Gabriel found himself numb and speechless.  
‘What is it all for? What is the meaning of it all?’ Claude asked bitterly. That night Gabriel held the picture of Elias close to his chest, picturing the man who had gone to fight for his country, and now for naught, angry, hot tears spilling on to his pillow.  
The worst was to come.  
France fell, bombing raids began, driving people underground and bringing fire raining down.  
Years of darkness will do something to you. It’ll teach you to analyse people’s voices, find their tone and emotions. It sparks up your imagination, what does this person look like, what about this scene, this sunset, this building. Claude’s always good at explaining things like that. But most of all it makes you focus, focus on how things feel beneath your fingers, the textures and folds and ridges, focus on the smells of the city, what this street or park or area smells like. And especially it teaches you to listen, listen to the way cars and tanks now rumble past as you stand at the curb side, how the wind and rain rustles through the trees, how to pick out a voice amongst the chatter.  
He could hear the city, in the darkness of their little shelter. He kept his eyes closed and tried to think of other things, but he could still hear it. Clattering, crashing, rumbling sounds. The sound of a plane travelling east to west, the sound of a whistling bomb falling then it’s loud rumbling boom as it landed and cratered the earth, then the sound of a crumbling building as someone else lost their home. And then, as he drew his sense inward, to the earthy smell of the shelter, the rough wool blanket around his shoulders, he heard a stifled sob. A quiet inhale, barely even a sniff, but it was there, right next to him.  
“Claude?” A brief silence where no one breathed. “Claude..?”  
“It’s fine Gabriel.” His voice was surprisingly level, but there was a shuffle next to him and he pictured the man wiping at his eyes, perhaps rubbing at his cheeks to bring himself back. He’s never been able to place Claude’s face, having met him too late, but he says he has dark green eyes, and he knows his hair curls. His voice is soft, with a hidden Irish brogue that came from his immigrant family that he’d tried so hard to hide when he’d joined the army – not realising then that he’d be thrown into a large scale war, thinking only of the money he could earn when no one else would take him in.  
Gabriel paused, then reached out to find his leg, then his cheek. It’s damp, though he couldn’t tell if it was all tears or if perspiration was playing a role. Claude’s skin was clammy and cold.  
“Tell me?” He prompted gently as Claude’s eyelashes fluttered closed against his fingers.  
“It’s too much.” Claude’s voice broke, a rough shake as he released the tension in his shoulders. A fresh tear ran warm over his fingertips. “It’s dark and- cramped and… The sound. The bombs, and the shells and the gunners. It’s all rattling around in here and- Even the smell… I back there. I’m back in France and-“ He felt Claude’s eyes snap open and suddenly he’d gone from beneath his hand.  
“Claude!”  
“I have to get out! We have to-“  
“Claude look at me.” Gabriel begged, next to his feet Eliza shifted and raised her head against his calf. There was a shuffle of feet then a tell-tale whistle.  
“Get down!” Claude yelled suddenly and Gabriel found himself being swept to the floor, crushed beneath the other man’s weight. Eliza barked wildly at the sudden clamour and he tried to reach a hand out to calm her. Claude trembled above him, despite the show of bravery at a faraway bomb. “They’ll kill us.”  
“It’s okay.” He murmured, Claude’s breath against his ear, ruffling his hair. “We’re safe. We’re safe. We’re at home.”  
“No! No No!”  
“Yes, it’s me. It’s Gabriel.” He reached to stroke Claude’s hair off his face. “I’ve got you.” Claude sobbed into his shoulder, until even Eliza moved to nuzzle him into a standing position, then Gabriel lead them up the path to the house, away from the damp smell of the Anderson, away from some of the memories. The house was still warm, and Claude sat heavily on the chair in the corner and it creaked gently. Eliza padded over, and he could hear Claude running his hands over her head, then as he shifted toward her. Gabriel found his way to them, using Eliza to lower himself to crouching. Claude’s hand reached to find his, and he’d never held anyone’s hand like he holds Claude’s, not even Elias, there’s no romance in it, but there is a kind of love, the kind that comes with long friendships and years spent living together.  
“I’m sorry.” Claude murmured quietly after a long while, hands still tight around his own. He would say it every night, every time there was a raid as he held on to Gabriel tightly, as they got through things together. And every time Gabriel would tell him that everything was fine, that everything would be alright.  
Except this time he isn’t there to say it, this time Claude will be alone in their house, shaking and shouting in the empty rooms. Gabriel itches to get out there, get back and help him but if he even shifts slightly someone moves to him, reassures him and sits him down again. It’s kind, but so infuriating he feels he might lash out if he doesn’t keep a hand running gently over Eliza’s head.  
It feels like an age before the all clear sounds, a haunting wail across the city and someone appears to call down and help people from the darkness into what he assumes is the blinding light of morning. Dazed, and slightly confused by his surroundings he asks someone which direction his street is, and keeps his hand to the wall until he feels more at home. He rounds a corner, his hand skimming a metal sign, and Eliza whimpers quietly. It’s unlike her, especially as he’s sure this is his street. There’s the smell of the roses people grow, fresh mown grass and- Something else. Something bitter and woody, something dusty, acrid. He can hear the murmuring of quiet voices, trying hard not to be heard and the sound of an engine running. He draws to a halt 14 doors down, or where 14 doors down should be. Here the voices become louder, then come to a complete an abrupt halt. The smell too is stronger, burning the back of his throat. He stands in the road, the warmth of a vehicle on one side, a puddle at his feet and turns his face in the direction of where his house usually is.  
He exhales a breath that tastes of brick dust.  
“My house, it’s gone isn’t it?” He asks no one in particular, but the people he’d heard mumbling move closer. He recognises the wheezing breath of the middle aged man in number 37, and the pastry smell of his wife as she draws near enough. There are a couple he can hear a little further off, but he doesn’t recognise them.  
“Nearly a direct hit.” The lady tells him, touching his shoulder. She’s kind, always coming over with a plate of pies for the pair of them, feeling sorry for the pair of old bachelors, harried and scarred. “I’m sorry dear.”  
“Claude, what about Claude?” He asks, futile as it is. He suspects she shakes her head, glances to her husband.  
“They think he was inside.” He says gruffly, though not without sympathy.  
“They are looking.” She tells him, though neither hold much hope. Gabriel himself knows Claude would have been in there, after their first night in the shelter they’d taken to hiding out in the house instead, where there were slightly less things to remind Claude. Claude, shaking, afraid, unsure. He exhales roughly. It was unlikely he could have been anywhere else, given the time.  
He should have been there. He wants to have been there.  
With the loss of his house – the house Elias had bought, that they had lived in and grown flowers in and that eventually he had left to Gabriel, that he had gone blind in, that Claude had helped him in and the he knew so perfectly – he is left without his independence, there will be so much to relearn, if anyone will give him the chance. With the loss of the house he has lost his last connections to Elias, the letters and the book and the photos and little trinkets, and though he couldn’t see them anymore their presence reassured him that Elias was still there, waiting someday, not forgotten. He can’t begin to think of the loss of Claude, not yet, not until later in an unfamiliar bed can he think about the loss of his friend and how much it will mean. For now he stands staring blindly at the rubble of his house, cursing the second war that has, for a second time, taken everything from him. And this time there will be no Claude to come around the corner, to provide that little chink of light he so needed last time.  
“Let’s get you a cuppa, ‘ey?” His neighbour, Mrs Worth he recalls dimly, asks softly already leading him down the road. “It might be a bit drafty, ours windows blew out.”  
Their house smells like baking, but it’s overlaid with the smell of brick dust and mud and the faint smell of burning, being washed away slowly by firemen’s hoses. Mrs Worth reminds him of his mother, though of a higher class than she had ever been, kindly as she settles him on a kitchen chair and potters around making a cup of tea and digging in cupboards.  
“It’s not much.” She tells him, setting a plate on the table, then a rattling cup and saucer that sounds like her hand shaking. He reaches for the table, gently sliding his hand along until he finds the edge of the saucer, then carefully up to find the handle of the cup. He can sense her watching him, looking for any sign that he might need help, but he’s been careful to maintain his independence, especially with such everyday tasks, and, thankfully, she doesn’t offer assistance. He hears her settle next to him, and the sounds of her husband next door sorting the front window. “Biscuit?”  
He takes one, rough and lightly greasy beneath his fingers, but doesn’t move to eat it. And so they sit like that a while, silence except the sound of sweeping next door and the occasional sip of tea. Eventually she sighs, heavy with the weight of wartime.  
“What will you do?” He shakes his head, setting his cup down gently.  
“I don’t… Know.”  
“Do you have any relatives?”  
“No, not anymore. Claude was the last.” She hums to herself, trying to think of a solution, though he doubts that there is one, not a simple one.  
“I’m sure there must be schemes, places that can help.” She doesn’t add a ‘people like you’, though it’s implied, and for that he’s grateful. “We have a spare bed, just for tonight.” A pause, a gentle sigh over the top of her tea. “You just don’t expect it to happen, not so close.” He can hear the horrible relief in her voice, the relief of wartime, that this time it wasn’t you. He thinks a moment of Frederick, still writing occasionally of his small family, his children, who will wonder where Gabriel has vanished to now.  
“I’ll get by. I have done before.” 

The night air is cool around him, and it smells sweet, like fresh cut grass and new blossoms. He’s near the park, away from the docklands with their acrid tang, and the bitter coal smell of the factories. He knows the map of London by it’s smell, bakeries, fish markets, vegetable sellers and costermongers, the high end cafes and cocktail bars, the shops with their perfumed smell seeping onto the streets, working men’s pubs reeking of grease and stale alcohol, the places where ladies gather to sell flowers perfumed even this late by fallen pollen. He’s had to relearn, after the past year that saw him displaced from his home, placed in what he suspects to be an old workhouse-turned-home, learn the smells and touches and textures that lead him home with or without Eliza. Stubborn, they call him, still determinedly independent, refusing nursing, going out daily on walks and to cafés. He rather thinks he was placed there too soon, he’d expected years in his own home, getting by with Claude, but things rarely work out as planned.  
Gabriel exhales.  
He knows he likely shouldn’t be out right now, the air raid siren sounded an hour or so ago, but out in the night, with the blackout reducing everyone’s visibility to zero, he feels almost at home. Home is a dangerous place, maybe he’s being just a little reckless, but there are no cars to disturb his walking now, and he can feign innocence to any warden who might find him. He wants to be reckless, but he pushes the thought away, pushes way the idea that he’s here for a purpose other than the freedom the night brings. Pushes away the thought that maybe he’d waited on purpose for the siren to wail before he strolled onto the streets without a care in the world.  
There’s a whistling overhead, and he instinctively turns his face to the sky.  
Then all at once there’s a loud explosion and he’s falling and…  
He can see.  
Gabriel draws in a breath like a drowning man coming to the surface.  
Everything’s so bright, he’d forgotten how colourful the world could be even at night, the hues that he used to paint, highlights and shadows in stark contrast. It hurts his eyes, he thinks it hurts anyway, he can’t really tell, muffled as his senses are, as if by cotton wool.  
Everything is tinted orange by a fire behind him, he’s still standing in the spot he’s sure he was in a second ago, the trees tinted umber by the flames, the shadows in the distance deep and foreboding. He realises he can’t hear anything, no crackling, no explosions or aeroplanes or sirens, none of the sounds of an air raid.  
There’s a man, emerging out of the shadow. He starts at the new presence. He can’t actually say if it is a man, cloaked as they are by a heavy, hooded overcoat but they’re resolutely making their way toward him.  
“Why can I see?” He asks them, calling out into the new world before him. Of course it doesn’t make sense to ask them, to shout madly at someone walking through the park, but right now anything seems more logical than what’s happened. The person doesn’t answer but they don’t stop either, moving in a slow deliberate manner that makes him step back. He’s still taking gasping breaths, but he can’t feel his chest rising. They reach him, and he meets their eyes and immediately they look like Elias’s though the rest of the face shifts and he can’t focus on it. “Why can I-“ He goes to repeat, but is interrupted.  
“You died.” They tell him, and it’s nearly banal, the way they say it. Gabriel pauses, completely unable to formulate a reply.  
“I-“ There’s a gesture, swishing movements. He turns toward the fire, squinting at the yellows and oranges. Then downward, away from what’s left of the building behind him to the shadow at his feet. The shadow forms into a man, completely unfamiliar at first, middle aged, lines shadowing his face, half masked by the contrasting light. Then, as he stares, the features fall into place. Though greying he can place the curls as the ones he runs a comb through each morning, he can remember the eyes he saw every day in the mirror for the first couple of decades of his life before they betrayed him, though they’re glazed, can just about recall the hands that used to draw piece after piece.  
“I’m sorry.”  
“No… No it’s fine.” He turns back to them, tearing his eyes away from the – his – body. It’s probably odd to say he feels relieved, but there’s a rushing sense of freedom washing over him, through his veins. “Will I see him again, Elias? Can I-”  
“No.” They tell him plainly, as though they’re not used to interacting with people, as if tact is not part of their repertoire. His blood turns cold, if he does in fact still have blood, draining from his face. The relief that had spread through him vanishes almost as soon as it blossomed.  
“But…” Through his life he’s somewhere, in the back of his mind, kept a hope that he would be able to see Elias again. It’s not something he’s dwelled on, but it’s always been there since that day in 1916 that Elias has been waiting for him.  
“I should rephrase. I don’t know, I’m here to escort you into your next life. He may be there, in the future.”  
“Then he’s already been here…” Gabriel feels he might cry with the realisation, if he even could. Elias having been here again, somewhere on this earth, living his life, a new life, without him. “All this time and I never knew.”  
“Come, we must leave. There’s a family waiting for you.”  
“A family…” He considers. A family, a fresh start, a completely new life. They smile kindly, and hold out a hand. “Could I see him, if you can?” The face wavers, and they frown in what might be concentration. Then Elias emerges from the flickering, looking exactly as he did when he boarded the train decades ago, smiling that perfect little smile he always did when he looked at Gabriel and Gabriel finds himself at a loss for words.  
“Shall we?” Elias asks, and Gabriel takes the offered hand, squeezing the cold fingers that are the only thing he can really feel he realises, and he leads him away from the flames, from the brightness into the park, and the pair fade slowly into the shadows there.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from The Lonely Hill by RA Harris 
> 
> I didn't mean to write more of this, but then I just knew what happened to them both so I figured I might as well tell you guys. The pair also meet again (Courfeyrac and Grantaire) in their next lives, as Clarence and Glen, and they also meet Jehan next time around, so don't worry, things do get better (Plus hippy Les Amis) :)
> 
> Also realised, entirely unintentionally, I'm posting this on the 100th anniversary of Elias's death (6th July 1916) which wasn't intentional at all! I just got a lot of inspiration over my holiday.  
> Complications should hopefully be up on Sunday!


End file.
